Night Terrors
by KaiteeKay
Summary: Sherlock has always had night terrors, and never found a cure.


Sherlock never slept.

He never told anyone why. But, it was obvious: it was the night terrors.

That's what they're called, right? Night terrors? That's what normal people call them, so that is what he calls them.

In the midst of the night he would shoot up out of bed, panting, grabbing at the air and yelling. His shirt would stick to his torso like it was glued there from his sweat. He never remembered why he woke up, but he refused to be awoken like that again. Instead of going back to rest, he would swiftly zip over to pull on his house coat and return to the front room. The rest of the night would be doing more experiments (if there were any needing done), chatting with his only friend, the skull, or just staring at the wall, finger tips pressed together in his usual ritual of thought.

When he did doze off from the lack of sleep, it would be an hour or so. Two if he was lucky. He would jolt upright and grab at his head, as a headache would start to crown. This was regular to Sherlock.

He had given up his bed to boxes of evidence or books. He would dig through them at night, tossing away the dull books, and flip through the interesting ones—only to throw those as well. Never an interesting read these days, he would think.

Of course, people noticed how the space under his eyes were a dark purple. They would ask how well he's sleeping, and of course he would shove them away. He was fine—just perfectly fine. He was just as awake as usual! Maybe dropping a couple things, but they were never important. Just pens, papers, books (most times those on purpose), you know.

Mrs. Hudson at first had constantly tried to get him to sleep, but it had become useless. She would leave him be to his business.

This was so regular; normal.

Until a certain militant walked into his life.

John noticed it as he was moving in- the yawning, the dropping of stuff, how he was always awake before him (John always got up at the ass crack of dawn). He made it a mission to help.

He tried to at first just talk to him, tell him to go to bed like a nagging mother. It got Sherlock inside his room, but not to sleep (or for that long).

Quickly, John learned about the night terrors. Every rare occasion Sherlock let himself doze off, he would hear his yelling and the creak of the floor as he moved across it.

After months of fighting, John decided to wait. He waited for Sherlock to finally start dozing, this time in his chair in the front room, and watched him.

Sherlock would shift and turn, his face wrinkling up or his tongue would peek out to wet his lips. This went on for a half hour. He knew it was creepy to do to his friend (friend? Right?), but he was worried for him.

Then Sherlock shot forward and gasped for air. His eyes were still closed tight, but he clawed at some invisible being.

"STOP. NO-" He was screaming. Without a conscious thought, John flew over, almost like a spirit, and closed his arms around Sherlock's body. Sherlock gasped again, and John still held him. The position was awkward to John, but his friend needed this. Sherlock's subconscious must have clicked onto this, and Sherlock's whole body relaxed against John's shoulders.

The soldier never let go that evening. The light snore he heard from Sherlock was a strange comfort. It was a much better one than listening to the shouting.

From Sherlock's perspective, the darkness had started to brighten. . he was dreaming, or was remembering it. He could see a calming palace over a lake; it had inviting colors of paint. A warm feeling came to his chest, or what Sherlock supposed was his chest, and he loved it. He let his omnipresence to the universe explore. He first went to the palace. Someone was there, he knew that. It was a palace! Of course someone was inside, enjoying the view. But it wasn't some busty woman or one with a parallel shade of ivory skin and dark hair—no. It was a man, a short one. With pale honey colored hair and welcoming skin. The fellow sat at the palace's front door, legs stretched forward.

Sherlock hovered nearby, watching. A taller man came up the steps to greet him—a familiar shade of ivory and nightly brown colored his person. Who was this man? And why was it so. . comforting?

Sherlock watched the two embrace—then woke up. He let his eyes dart around and came to realize the cause for his sudden claustrophobia.

John was snoozing in his lap. His arms hung loosely around his neck. He tensed up, why was his flatmate sleeping on him? What is this strange feeling in his body? And why hasn't he pushed him off yet?

Sherlock watched the militant nap; his hair tousled and a familiar shade of pale honey. .

He didn't shove him off. And never again did he.

Then onwards, Sherlock always slept, but only with a John at his side.


End file.
